


Hiraeth

by Ithurielistic



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU - alternate universe, AU Avengers - Freeform, Action, Avengers - Freeform, Avengers Assemble - Freeform, Butterfly Effect, Canonical Romance, Drama, End-all Villain, Gen, Loki & Tony Become Bros, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Non-canonical Romance, Thor & Loki Drama, War, non-explicit violence, saving the universe, time-skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-17 19:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12372930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithurielistic/pseuds/Ithurielistic
Summary: The chitauri are still defeated. Loki is captured. But all is not well in the realm of the Thunderer.Asgard is the first to fall. On a distant desert planet, it rains for two years.Thanos sets his eye to Earth, and a sodden thunder god, a sour trickster, and a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist are the only ones standing in his way.





	1. Returning

**Author's Note:**

> Avengers AU:  
> In the past, the bifrost is fixed early and Thor visits Jane on earth.
> 
> In the present, Thor brings Loki home.

_The threads of flashing light dissipate, revealing the form of a man. "Darcy!" Jane stumbles back, awestruck. Her intern is at Burger King, picking up fries for the two of them. She doesn't hear Jane's cry._

_The man rises, cape fluttering behind him in the dusky humid breeze. He looks the same as before, only more tired. Older. But still Thor._

_Jane is staring, wide-eyed, disbelieving. She can barely accept that it is true. All those weeks, searching for a sign of his return in vain-_

_"When you sent me the message that the bridge broke-" Jane cuts off, vulnerable. "I didn't think you could come back," she whispers. She thought that she was grasping at straws. That soon, she would give up hope and return to her life. She had accepted that._

_Thor smiles, triumphant. "How could I not?"_

 

\- - - Present-Day - - -

 

A blur of light rushes past Thor's retinas, too fast to distinguish color, a fathomless streak of matter and energy. The stream of light ends abruptly and his feet are grounded all in an instant, and Thor is forced to steady himself a hair from the impact. He frowns. It has been a millennium since he was unbalanced so by mere inter-dimensional travel, and it irks Thor that he should display such weakness.

It feels as though his heart has been displaced violently and a millstone thrust in its place, a cold and aching weight in his chest, causing each breath to become more difficult with each motion he makes.

The Tesseract is suddenly supported only by his own weight, and as it falls to Thor's side his mind catches up with his body. Loki has dropped his end, and is standing stock straight, cold, by Thor's side, a wraith in the corner of his eye. The Thunderer nearly spares a glance at him, but chooses against it a split second later. He grits his teeth. Loki does not deserve the recognition, the acknowledgement of Thor's gaze.

"Heimdall," Thor says instead, greeting the gatekeeper, whose presence is stoic as ever, "where is Odin All-Father? I bring him the traitor." The last word pulls like bitter poison from Thor's lips, and he fights the urge to spit in disgust.

Traitor. (Thief, son-of-none. Murderer.)

Killer. (Child of deceit.)

Loki is silent, ever-silent, and it angers Thor beyond reason. He reaches out and places a heavy hand on Loki's shoulder, gripping it harshly tight as an outlet for his rage. It feels like he is squeezing the slight bones of a bird, as if they may snap if put under just an iota more pressure...

"The All-Father is awaiting you, my prince, in the throne room," Heimdall replies, eyes like embers burning holes in Thor's. "He will see you there." He is the example of passivity.

Thor feels yet another wave of anger crash around him, directed this time at Heimdall. Has he not witnessed the same events as Thor himself? Has he not seen the atrocity− the atrocities committed by the one Thor had loved most? Has Heimdall not seen what has been lost to Thor? Heimdall has no right to uncaring, if he sees all, and knows all, and has no shame.

"Do you feel nothing of my－" (no, not brother, never brother) "－of this traitor's actions against your prince?" Thor wants to say, "Have you no regret? Have you no shame?" It itches beneath his skin like mites, trying to gnaw their way out with infinitesimally sharp teeth.

Loki tenses beneath Thor's hand as it tightens further, perhaps knowing his thoughts, and Thor is so angry that...he does not know. The thing provoking outrage in him deflates, leaving only that emptiness that Thor has come to dread in himself. There is nothing left to fill that hole, that cavernous, gaping, throbbing thing in him that longs for something to complete it. The edges of his soul are ragged.

"The king awaits you, Prince." Heimdall appears unknowing of the inner conflict lurking within Thor. Perhaps it is for the better.

"You-" Thor begins to say, eyes still locked on the gatekeeper's face, but is cut off by a voice he knows so well that it may as well be his own.

"Thor!" Sif, of course it is Sif, it is always Sif, walking towards him with boundless strides across the rainbow bridge. She sounds relieved, and glad to see him, and as Thor turns to look her in the eyes he is met with such a joy that it hurts him deeply, deeply, he knows not why. Her face holds little of that happiness, because it could be perceived as a weakness should she let it show. It is in her eyes.

Most of Asgard believe those dark eyes to be fathomless, frightening, the mark of a warrior, but Thor can see the light in them more clearly than day.

Thor lets himself smile broadly. It is the first one he has sported in days, but it feels as if years have passed since his lips have upturned. "Sif," he says with such relief that it feels as if he can breathe again. Then he notices the Warriors Three behind her, and the weight in his chest grows even lighter. "Friends!"

Each of them greet him in his own way; Fandral bowing extravagantly, Hogunn nodding, Volstagg grinning broadly. It is strange that they are silent, save Hogunn, whose nature is wordless. They are trying not to look beyond Thor's left shoulder desperately. But Thor pays no mind.

Perhaps now he will not choke on his own breath. "Join me, friends," Thor says. His smile seems less real as he is reminded of what he must do, of the silent one lurking beside him. "I must see to this traitor's incarceration, and I will be glad to have you by my side."

His friend's eyes jump to and away from the one beside him, as if they cannot decide whether to acknowledge or ignore, but all eventually nod in assent.

Thor strides forward, pushing Loki- the traitor in front of him roughly. (No mercy, after what he has done.) It is as if the hate inside of him spoils the happiness at seeing his companions. It is as if it is all leeched away. It is not unjustified, Thor reminds himself, it is not wrath. It is vengeance.

Sif scans his face with a strange gleam in her eye, keeping pace at his side despite his greater stride. Volstagg, Fandrall, and Hogunn are silent, watchful presences at their backs, like sentinels, and for that Thor is grateful. Their silence would usually unnerve him, but the circumstances are so that Thor does not even think to question it.

Thor has one mission at the forefront of his mind, grounding him; one purpose keeping his mind from the precipice, from falling once more into the sea of raging agony that blinds him to all else. Once he has time to rest; then can he tame it. Only then can he allow himself to mourn, truly, rather than this be enveloped in the consuming blackness of grief. The tears cannot fall until he is alone to his thoughts. Thor cannot show weakness.

Sif's voice colors the silence. "You are grieved," she says. Despite the surety of her statement, there is something uncharacteristic in her voice. Something open, as if she is preparing to bare her heart to him. "It clings to you like a fog. You have won, as always, yet you do not celebrate as usual; did you not triumph, Thor? Were you not victorious?"

Sif has ever known Thor better, perhaps, than he even knows himself. Thor lets his voice quiet to the barest murmur, so that none can hear his words save his closest, dearest friend. Not even Loki. Never Loki (never again so long as he lives will he let the traitor into his heart again).

(Never will I love again.)

"I loved," Thor's voice hitches, but he forces himself to continue, "I loved a mortal." He speaks for Sif's ears alone. Of any, only she will understand, says his heart. Sif has always understood him better than any.

Thor does not see the startled unease betrayed in her eyes, nor the slight parting of her lips in shock, for he is gazing at the skyline, enraptured by the glittering golden spires that arc across the air like sunlight, yet mourning that Jane has not lived to see it. That Thor's promise to her, his impulsive oath before she died, would never be fulfilled.

("And I will bring you to the land of my home, where you will never die, and as far as the eye can see there will only be light," Thor promised, forcing his eyes to remain trained on Jane's face and not wander to the mess of blood and weakly pulsating flesh beneath her chin (it ripples with each breath thin as like paper, and Thor must not look, cannot let himself), "where there are endless spirals of gold rising into the skyline, and a sun that sets them alight in the evening with fire so bright that none so brave as we will look upon it, and be blinded by its radiance even into the night." He was trembling so badly that his tongue had nearly forgotten how to form words.

Thor gripped Jane's hand, slick as it was with blood.

"Take me there," she begged, and it was accompanied by a gurgle of thick liquid deep in her throat, bubbling up, and her eyes were like dying marbles as the hope in them departed, the smile on her face etched there as it froze in death-

"I will, I will, I swear it," his eyelashes were heavy with blood and the weight of an oath he cannot keep, and he can only hope Jane can still hear him somehow, his Jane, his beautiful Jane- "I promise," and his head swims with vipers.)

Thor feels pins prick at his eyes, and blinks several times. He cannot let himself dwell on such memories, not now. Sif's hand alighted on his shoulder for a moment, like a skittish bird, then drew away just as quickly, as if his skin were aflame.

"Loved," she says next, and there is something like horror and understanding intermixed, edging the word.

She hurts for him.

"She is dead." Thor cannot bring himself to elaborate (not yet, the pain is too near. He can still feel Jane's blood, slick on his fingers). But beyond the pain, Thor can feel something in himself, something that is almost frightening; that rage for death and vengeance and destruction. It is calling for the blood of Jane's murderer to be spilt upon the soil of Asgard.

His pain and rage are like oil and water, unable to intermix. Because Thor cannot kill Jane's murderer. He cannot kill the one he is escorting to the All-Father, the one beside him, the one who he once called brother. Thor is not king, he does not have the right.

(You soon shall be, whispers a traitorous part of his mind, and Thor almost listens.)

Could he bring himself to do it?

(Yes.)

Perhaps.

"Was she killed in the war?" Sif asks, oblivious to the inner conflict raging between Thor's heart and his mind and his flesh.

"Yes," Thor answers, something like bitter coldness seeping into his voice, "but she was no warrior."

Sif's chin drops a fraction, and then she looks at him with those eyes and all that is there is understanding, and pain. It is so familiar, so loyal, that Thor's eyes are suddenly wet.

Thor looks into Sif's eyes, and they understand. The pain in him numbs for a moment, a blessed moment, before sweeping back with greater strength than before, an underhanded counterattack.

Then they are through the palace gates, and Thor must be strong once more. The people watch in the streets as they pass, staring at the monster he brings, horror in their eyes as they gather their young ones close to them, and duck behind doorways. Even the commoners see what Loki is, now.

But it is not enough. Sight is not enough.

Thor cannot let his chin drop. It is like Mjolnir is to the unworthy, the weight of a planet. His eyes are like boulders. He cannot let his bravado fall. Sif is beside him but it is not enough. That rage, that rage makes his hands itch.

The people stare, and Thor wants to kill them all, take them by the throat and throttle them to stifle their gazes, like bullets, from piercing into his soul.


	2. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif is worried. Everyone is worried, but Sif is worried most of All.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is a completely new chapter. I'm just really indecisive with how I want this story organized, not gonna lie.
> 
> Any helpful or kind comments are appreciated!

What now? _Jane thinks._

 

\- - - - - -

 

Sif watches Thor intently, searching his face for what pains him (it cannot just be the mortal. Just a mortal cannot provoke such desperate loss, such inflamed rage). She worries for him, for her dearest and closest friend. He walks as a man who has lost everything; weariness colors his gait in shades of grief. She wants to reach out and dare to touch his hand, gently, and comfort that weariness away until the man Sif knows and loves has returned from the grave.

And yet there is something angered within Thor that Sif has not seen since his banishment so long ago, a fire in his eyes that she thought long extinguished by Odin's meddling. Some might call it a regression, then, but Sif does not care. Thor is Thor. It seemed the only thing in Sif's life that she could always count on.

Instead, she asks, "The mortal. What was her name?" perhaps simply to break the silence that lays like a shroud over them, blocking out the light of Asgard's sun and casting shadows into her mind.

But it only seems to make it worse, and Thor's expression closes, barred suddenly from Sif's view. "Jane," he says, and it is through gritted teeth. Jane. An odd, alien name. It was befitting for this strange, foreign woman, who had stolen Thor's heart in mere days. Days. Whereas Sif had been Thor's friend and confidant for millennia.

Am I truly so vile a companion?

Do time and faith and loyalty matter not?

Perhaps it was so that the wiles of a Midgardian were simply superior to that of an Aesir. It is because they are so ephemeral, and die so easily, they must have to live their lives quickly before they fade away into shadows and the night, she thinks. They are so brief, so stunted.

Perhaps it was a blessing to that woman, to know Thor before meeting Hel. She knew not her fortune, to have laid eyes on an Aesir, a golden one, a being so superior to her that she should not have the dignity to deign to look him in the eyes. This Jane, she bore the love of a god.

But Thor does not see that he has saved this woman. Perhaps he cannot. That fire, that smoldering furnace within him, Sif realizes, has changed. There is no gleam of joy left, no spark of gaiety in the flame of his eye. His knuckles are white where he grips his brother's shoulder, and Sif almost struggles to keep up with Thor's pace as his strides lengthen.

Sif looks for the first time at the younger prince (former prince, he will be stripped of his title, of course, there is no chance of anything otherwise), face chalk-white, fingers spiraled in on themselves and tightened into fists. He is so small beside Thor, a whisper in the shadow of the thunder god's broad shoulders.

(Loki. Oh, Loki.)

His mind was always so bright, such a brilliant star that he never did fit in, until now. And even now, he did not manage to do it right. Even when he and Sif had been close, closer than she and Thor. (Before Loki became bitter and jealous like a thief and stole her beauty in the night.) He had never fit in.

(What a bright light gone dim. What happened to you?)

Loki and Thor had always been so, so different that Sif had wondered if they were even brothers, even related, even of the same species ("Are you sure you are even Aesir, Loki?" Laughter. They're only jests, nothing more). And I was right, she thought. She has never been so regretful of being correct, so mortified, so horror-filled at the truth of her jest, so ashamed.

But she had not trusted Loki for centuries. How could she?

Loki had become crafty, and secluded like a creature of darkness shies from the light. Jotun beast, her mind says. Monster. Sif crushes those thoughts like beetles, but they will not stay dead. The truth of the matter is still there, still right before her very eyes. Loki grew selfish, and bitter, and Sif watched as he sabotaged every relationship he had until there was nothing left for him to destroy but himself.

And Loki, child of Jotunheim, bringer of Ragnarok, you hath succeeded.

(Hath you not destroyed even thyself?)

Every drop of blood in her balked from the childish love she still held for that twisted soul of a man, but she could not shake it.

Some part of Sif always saw that boy in him, that boy beneath the bitter creature, that boy that would weave flowers out of sunlight and who had a laugh like silver rain, that boy who loved her unconditionally, with frightening wit and a gentle soul.

He'd never belonged, tender, kind-hearted; and neither had Sif (hard where she should be soft, cruel and tempestuous).

It was as if the princes of Asgard were ever-destined to rend her soul into throbbing splinters, and leave her to prick her fingers on them again and again like needles as she tried to piece herself back together.

(Thor and Loki. Loki and Thor. Destroyers. Heart-killers.)

They are within the palace walls, guards lining every step of their path, wordless sentinels, symbolic, good-for-nothing, because if Loki were to escape, they would only be worthless fodder. If it came to it, truly, Sif would kill Loki herself, and hate herself for it until the end of her days.

Their footsteps are clipped upon the cold marble of the palace, and still no words are spoken. The silence hangs, a woven tapestry of fettered emotion, an invisible curtain that bars their words from ever touching each other. Perhaps Sif's own thoughts ring loud enough to fill the silence.

The great hall approaches, and with it apprehension. The great hall, and a throne that soon shall be Thor's.

(Shall I stand at his side?)

The great hall approaches, and what edict it may yield, Sif knows not. Loki is subtly digging in his heels with each step, and Sif thinks that he does not even realize it himself. You are frightened, son of lies.

There is a sudden clawing, scraping, gouging force in her abdomen, a beast gnawing at her entrails, vicious and unconfined, and Sif is filled with misgivings. She is frightened as well (even if Loki does not deserve it). The blood runs like ice through her her veins and her chest trembles from the chill.

They pause before the iron doors barring the throne room, the great hall from prying eyes and ears, great swathes of metal framework intertwined with gold leaves and silent foreboding.

Their steps had stalled until they stood, stock-straight, silent, for a split second before Thor's breath comes out all in one all-encompassing sigh that is laden with emotion (fear, weariness, anger, grief), and he turns to her. Sif looks past him, and Loki's eyes are closed, as if he is gathering strength preceding the onslaught to come, and the decree of his life, death, or banishment.

"I must leave you here, my friends," Thor says, but he is staring at Sif, at her eyes, and she is staring back into oceanic depths of blue, fathomless waters of pain. The Warriors Three, having done their duty (fools) nod, murmuring platitudes, and retreat swiftly. But Sif will stay, just a moment longer, or perhaps more. Perhaps a century.

"I will wait," Sif replies. The symbolism of her words is not lost to her.

I will wait for you, Thor, you stubborn fool.

And the doors are shut, echoing through the hollows of her mind like a raging thunderclap, and Sif is left alone.

 


	3. Hubris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki thinks of the inevitable, and isn't frightened.

_Jane steps towards the Thunderer, near reverent in her movements. She hadn't thought it was possible. She had thought Thor gone forever, trapped in his own dimension. "How?" Jane asks. Her mind is that of a scientist. She never can bear not knowing. She never has been able to._

_"The Bifrost was made whole once more," Thor replies, and he rests his hand on her upper arm. "An envoy of ambassadorial Alfheimr were trapped on Asgard in the advent of its shattering, and their magjicks sped the process by many months. Were my brother there, it would have been faster, but-" Thor frowns, his features closing off slightly._

_"Alfhiemr?" Jane tries to change the subject. She knows that the topic of Thor's brother must be sensitive...seeing as he tried to murder them all a few months ago. She must tread lightly, Jane thinks._

_"Light elves, from the realm of Alfhiem," Thor explains, but it is clear that he is impatient. "But that does not matter, now." He takes her hands, and she smiles up at him, still a little shaken. She can tell he is, too, a little._

_He brings her hands to his lips and kisses them gently._

_"This is all that matters," he says, eyes bright like newborn stars. Jane would know. After all, she's spent her entire life studying them, hoping that one day it would be worth it._

_Finally, finally, it is._

 

\- - - - - -

 

There are whispers in his mind that do not sleep.

It is strange, that no one thinks to turn their head; but none have ever seen him, nor have ever cared to look, to use their eyes even in the wake of blood and gore and destruction to see what is there, the pain and the heartbreak and the guilt (and that I didn't mean for this). They point their fingers, yes, but they never use their eyes.

(You fall short even as a monster. Even as a creature borne of destruction, of filth, you still have failed. You are not even real; you yourself are a lie, a nightmare.)

Thor, Loki knows, will perhaps never be able to look at him again until the fateful day that has been approaching since his birth. (Thor, you will kill me, as you have sworn to since your nameday).

By virtue of Loki's very being, his nature, his flesh, Thor will always slaughter him, tear him apart with meaty hands and an eye full of disgusted rage. He has always known, somewhere within himself, he has always known that he would die violently, torn apart by a tempest. Until he knew what he was, Loki always thought it would be protecting Thor.

Lies are always more beautiful than truth.

(When I am gone, only a soul, will you then look me in the eyes, Thor? When my frozen, aching flesh is shed, when I am no longer cold and despicable and grotesque, will then you see me?)

Even the one who professed to be his father would not dare look him in the eyes (are you afraid, world-killer?). Odin All-Father, protector of the Nine, what will thou decree?

The All-Father slouches across his golden throne like a distorted caress, and his single eye is pinched, ancient and wrinkled as the hand that clutches Gunigr with unseemly but waning strength.

He looks worn, and old, and grieved (are we all not grieved, Odin All-Father; do we not all feel pain?), and Loki imagines that the heart that beats beneath his breast is dry and blackened like a desert of ash. He can almost hear the crackle of charred, splitting flesh as it pumps blood weakly.

He will soon descend into the Odinsleep.

Thor's hand clutches like a vice on Loki's shoulder. It takes all of his willpower not to flinch when Thor's grip spasms like an earthquake has rippled through his frame.

(You want to strangle me with those hands. Why do you not?)

"Father," Thor says, voice echoing through the hollowness of the empty hall. It is just the three men; two kings, and a creature.

"Son." Odin's cruelty is not lost on either Thor or Loki, but neither let themselves care, neither allow themselves to flinch at the poison word. They cannot. (I cannot.)

"I have brought before you the traitor, the deceiver, All-Father." Thor's voice rings clearer than certainty, weakness barely peeking through the cracks in his skin.

Loki almost snorts in derision, and he knows not why he stopped himself short. The metal contraption sealing his tongue would have stifled any sound, any breath he could have uttered. Deceiver, yes, traitor?− no (yes), never.

Whether right or wrong, Loki has only ever acted for the good of his people (not his people) and his home (never a home). He has only ever done what he thought right. He has only ever done as Thor would have done; if he is a monster, so Thor must be as well.  
  
Loki's heart balks at that, but he silences it because he is right, he speaks the truth, for once in his years of lies he speaks honesty. He would have been a better king than any, even as an outsider. He would have ruled well.

He would have been a good king.

But Loki does not even trust his own thoughts. Loki does not know truth from falsehood, he has walked the line so long.

"What is your decree?" Thor's voice fills the empty hall like an avalanche, befitting his title of Thunderer.

Odin scrutinizes for a time, a seemingly eternal silence descending. It is as if he must spend twice as long watching, waiting, to make up for the empty-eye, vacant flesh beneath the gold-wrought eyepatch.

Is that weakness showing, All-Father, is that hesitance?

"The council will decide his fate," Odin eventually says, but is more like a gasp, like a hollow breath of air, than Loki is used. There is no strength left in him.

The council will tear Loki apart, he knows, like rabid wolves descending on a wounded beast. Perhaps it is befitting, then, that they shall become the monsters. You cannot even resolve my fate yourself, false-father, so you can pretend yourself exempt at my downfall.

The ferociousness with which Thor's fingers dig into the flesh of his shoulder are indicative of the rage Loki knows is welling up inside Thor. Loki does not turn his face, does not dare even to do that, but watches the brewing storm of Thor's features threaten to boil over.

Loki fully expects Thor to rage, and protest, and seethe that Odin is letting insolent outsiders, snakes, sycophants, decide the fate of such a supposed traitor, murderer of a woman whose life was nearly burnt out by mortality, whose fate was to die regardless of what Loki would have done.

But the explosion never comes, and Loki watches in abject curiosity as Thor deflates into something smaller and dejected, melting into sorrow like candle-wax. He looks so soft, so fragile.

Loki will have to correct that. _It is Thor_ , he thinks. _It will not be difficult_. Once his voice is free once more, everything will fall into place. Loki's words have long been his most fearsome weapon, after all.

Odin finally turns his eye towards Loki. "Loki." Both Thor and Loki take in startled breaths. "You will be imprisoned until the trial council decides your fate. Use this time to think upon your actions, and pray the Norns deem your punishment swift."

If his jaw were not bound, Loki would have spit at the All-father's feet. The great doors open, and Loki is pulled away by guards, green eyes like poison. As Thor fades into a crimson speck, Loki thinks he has done his job well, despite everything.

_Now, brother, all you must do is strike me down._


End file.
